


Impedimenta

by bigsliggoo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Blood Magic, Evil Warden (Dragon Age), Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, One Shot, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Post-Canon, hurt/not much comfort, sorry this is just kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 04:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20168089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigsliggoo/pseuds/bigsliggoo
Summary: Since Ash Surana entered his life, Zevran had experienced no shortage of hardships, but through it all he had always felt that he was living in a dream. As a duo, they were utterly insufferable, and Zevran was the happiest he had ever been. They ended the Blight and each began pursuing his own ambitions for good or for evil with the knowledge that the other was never far away. Without warning, the dream ended and he was woken up abruptly and uncomfortably. Paralyzed with guilt and unable to move on, he began digging through his memory for something, anything, that could free him from his grief. He found that his mind always wandered back to the time of the Blight.Eventually, Zevran built up enough resolve to visit an old acquaintance and her son in a desperate bid for catharsis. He was unsure what it would accomplish, but he would never find peace if he didn't try.





	Impedimenta

One of Zevran's most treasured memories was a cold and windy night during the Blight when their ragtag band camped north of the Brecilian forest. It was an old memory by now, but every once and a while he would dig it up just to stir his own heart when he felt it growing cold. He had many pleasant memories and this was not the most pleasant one, but if he were not under constant threat from assassins and spies, he would have written it down in detail and preserved it as carefully as his own life. To forget it or let it be warped by the passing of time would be for Zevran as he knew himself to die. He liked to think of himself as a man concerned only with the future, but when his future did not turn out the way he had hoped, he found himself in an oddly sentimental mood. 

Out of courtesy for their companions, he and Ash had pitched their tent as far away as possible while still in range of Shale's watchful eye. Complaints about the noise coming from Ash's tent began within days of him meeting Zevran and they had continued for the many months since, but tonight Ash thought it would be nice to have a fire just for the two of them. While he certainly felt at home in Ash's bed by this point, such a romantic gesture was out of character for Ash. Their enjoyment of each other was so strong that they were inseparable at all hours of the day, but Zevran had always taken this with a grain of salt. He could tell from the moment he met Ash that the true intent of his actions was always worth questioning. The boy so quickly dismissed the conventional notions of morality or empathy that surely there was no room in his heart for the concept of friendship, much less romance. Ash enjoyed his company, but it seemed unlikely that his interest went any deeper than that. If Ash did possess a deeper interest in him, it was likely malicious. Himself an assassin by trade, Zevran at least possessed the faculty to put aside remorse when it proved counterproductive, but he was convinced that Ash did not feel remorse at all. It was not a bothersome difference, but Zevran tried his best to prepare for the day when things would eventually go sour between them.

In the tent, they went about their business as usual, until Ash withdrew without explanation. Zevran was stunned. It was unlike his friend to withdraw from anything, much less something hedonistic. Ash exited the tent, and Zevran found him staring cross-armed into the forest.

“What do you think of me, Zevran?” he asked.

Zevran had no words. Never in all their time together had he imagined having to answer this question.

Ash turned his head to face him. “Do you hate me?” The rays of moonlight traced the contours of his face, which was almost unfamiliar without a toothy smile to twist his features.

“No, I… I don’t hate you. Did it seem like I hated you just now?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. His skin was still slick with sweat and his breath had not yet returned to him.

“I don’t know…” Ash replied pensively. He turned back to the forest and Zevran could see him starting to trace his fingernails along his forearm. “If you do hate me, it’s—I don’t care. It--I'm fine. It doesn’t really matter.” His voice cracked.

He really wasn’t joking about… whatever he was talking about. Zevran rose from where he crouched at the tent flap and stood beside him. His arm instinctively moved to wrap around the smaller man’s shoulders, but he noticed a black cloud swirling around Ash’s hand where his fingernails were tearing into his skin. Half of his face twitched with discomfort, but Zevran knew that this amount of pain was not enough to make Ash wince.

“What’s wrong, my friend?” Zevran asked. “Is something the matter?” He moved to put his left hand on Ash’s elbow and held his robe away from the bloody mist with his right.

Ash recoiled away from him. “I’m trying to focus. Just let me—it helps me think.” The cloud grew larger. It was for this reason that all of Ash’s clothes were already dyed black.

Zevran was familiar with Ash’s habits. When he was feeling antsy or stressed, his nails found their way to his arms, where they would release his blood to the air. He claimed that the blood magic heightened his senses for a while, but it came at the risk of him becoming lightheaded and passing out, so Zevran cautioned him against it. From the density of this swirly black mass, he was certain that Ash would collapse if he didn't do something.

"Hey, hey now." He put his hands on Ash's shoulders and turned him so they faced each other. His robe be damned, it was frightening to see Ash this way. "What are you thinking about?"

After resisting for a second, Ash relaxed and let Zevran hold him by the shoulders. For a moment, he was silent and failed to look Zevran in the eye, instead fixating on the ground next to his feet. His eyelids fluttered and he sniffled as he vaporized the rest of the blood in the air. Just as Zevran was beginning to wonder if he was already fainting from the blood loss, Ash perked up and returned his gaze. 

"The Dalish clan. You were unhappy about what happened to them," he said. 

Zevran paused in recollection, then said, "Yes, I was, but we talked about this, no? It's... I said it was fine, do you remember?" It was half a lie at the time, but he honestly hadn’t thought about it again in the last few days. "Do you feel bad about what happened?" He immediately regretted his choice of words. One of the reasons Ash was so fond of him was because he didn't ask stupid questions like that, but what was he supposed to think?

Ash's mouth opened and closed a few times before he found the right words. "I don't feel bad for them. I... I quite enjoyed how that worked out in the end, you know, but I know you were unhappy with me. I felt like you might have changed your mind about me, that I chose to do that."

"It truly is not a big deal," said Zevran. "I will admit, I was upset. But I thought about it more and it has not 'changed my mind' about you."

"I think I believe you," he replied, "but that’s not the problem. I don't care if people hate me or dislike me. I don't care about other people, and I never care what anyone else wants me to do. But you... why should you matter to me? It doesn't matter what you think about me, because you are only alive because I allow it." His voice doubled in volume. "You failed your mission, and you have nothing left except for me, and if you decide that you hate me too, what will you do? Who will protect you from the Crows? You are nothing without me. What you think doesn't matter to _my_ success." His arms were starting to break free of Zevran's shaking hands. "I don't lie to you because I don't even have to. If you left me, I would probably be... I would _not _be happy, but it wouldn’t stop me. Nothing will stop me. I would still end the Blight all by myself!" 

As he finished speaking, his hands were gesturing wildly and blood was starting to drip from his nose and onto his teeth, now bared in a wicked smile. Zevran carefully withdrew his hands, mortified.

"But at the same time," Ash continued, more softly, "I... I wouldn't want you to leave me. No one else has a tongue quite like you, I'll admit it. There's no one else that keeps me entertained like you do, sure... I would rather die than be bored, but it's not like I've ever been _afraid _of it. If I was gonna be locked up in that damn tower again, I wouldn't feel like... Like this. Maker help whoever fucks with me on that day, but I would not feel this... like this." He spat the word with great contempt. "I... I think I'm afraid, Zevran. I'm afraid that you, uh... that you won't like me anymore." His head cocked as if he was confused by his own words.

The man shrank back down to the tired and confused boy from a minute ago. Blood dripped from his fingertips and onto his legs. Closing his eyes, Ash put one hand to his head and reached the other one out as if to grab something. Zevran quickly realized what was happening and swooped in to catch Ash around his narrow torso. He was too late to keep Ash upright, so he guided him to sit on the grass. He did not have to support him for long before he felt Ash's own muscles returning to their function. As he pulled back to sit next to him in the grass, Zevran considered what he had just heard. He felt exposed without a dagger on him, but he could never have expected something unusual to happen tonight in particular. To have Ash's cruelty directed towards him made his stomach weak with fear and despair, but why should he have such a reaction? He had lost count of how many times Ash had pulled him aside to whisper something amusing but utterly heartless about someone or something along their journey. Surely Zevran had assumed that this was how Ash always felt about him, but to hear it voiced was scathingly painful. 

Ash finished blinking to test his vision, but he did not immediately resume speaking. He wiped the blood off of his chin where his tongue couldn't reach and stared down at his bloodied hand. After a minute of sitting and staring, he said, "This has never happened before. I've never felt this way about anyone else."

Zevran also stared at Ash's bloody hand, himself now fearing eye contact. "What is it that you feel about me?"

"I don't want to hurt you. That’s not normal. If I ever hurt you, I would... I don't know. I would care if something happened to you and I--I don't know why."

Ash gazed at him with glassy eyes. Was this… vulnerability? Zevran felt like he was witnessing a mythical animal. No one had ever seen this before and perhaps no one would ever see it again. It was a dangerous animal, sure, but he felt that if he looked away, it would disappear, and no one would ever believe that he saw it. So he stared back at Ash, trying to discern something from his eyes. If this was all some sort of ruse, it was working, and Ash deserved whatever twisted benefits he would reap.

"Please say something," said Ash.

Zevran blinked away his amazement. The word "please" took him by surprise. "That’s alright. I... care about you, as well." _Here comes the part where he gives up the act and everyone comes out from behind the trees and they all point and laugh at me_, he thought.

"But that's normal for you, though. Right?"

"Well, I don't care about everyone," Zevran replied. "I don't care about everyone I meet, or talk to, or make love to, even."

"Why do you care about me?"

Zevran exhaled. He could think of many reasons why he liked Ash, but almost as many reasons why he ought not to. It occurred to him that if Ash really was taking advantage of him, he was unprepared to resist. He tried to imagine in detail a day when he might have to kill Ash to save his own life, and he was surprised to feel immobilized with grief. "I care about you because I am comfortable around you. I relax when I am with you, yes? Without the Crows, I should be more scared than I have ever been in my life. We are in a Blight! Our chances of dying horrifically at any moment have never been higher, but it doesn’t bother me. I find that I enjoy my life. Perhaps even more than before.”

"More than before…" Ash repeated quietly. He crawled towards him and said, "I'm going to lay here," gesturing to Zevran's thigh.

He almost did not know how to respond to Ash asking permission for something. "O-Of course," he stuttered. Zevran felt his companion's smooth black hair slide past his robe and along his inner thighs like oil, and he had to bite his lip to mask his reaction. He cursed himself for wishing this could have waited until after they were done.

"And why would I care about you?"

It amused Zevran to think how offensive all of Ash's words would be spoken by anyone else (or to anyone else). When he saw that innocent face staring up at him, he could not help but place his hand against it, in spite of everything. "Hmm. Well, you said it best yourself. You don't have to lie to me. It is true; tactically, I am nothing but an exceptionally handsome pair of daggers at your disposal, but surely it is nice to have at least one travelling companion who would not wish you to be different than you are.”

“They do wish I was uh... heh.” 

“I also catch you when you make yourself collapse on the ground like a fool. It’s rather gentlemanly of me.”

Ash laughed sharply. “Ha! There’s nothing foolish about it because I know you’ll catch me. I have nothing to worry about!” He started retracing the bloody lines on his arms, lacing the flesh back together with flashes of magic from his fingertips.

“It seems we have found our answer. You care about me because you are but a flimsy waif and you need some nice, strong arms to hold you when it all becomes simply too much to bear, and you expire from the stress.” With his free hand, Zevran mimed the expiration of a flimsy waif.

"Alistair would do that if I asked. Or Shale."

"But is it not better that you have someone a bit more dexterous? So that you are not ground into a bony paste in the process?"

"Hey! Easy on the bony stuff Zev, I'm self-conscious, yeah?" He laughed. "But, um... yeah. I don't like it."

"Do you mean..." Zevran began.

"I don't like that way you make me feel. I don't like it at all. It's a weakness."

Zevran could imagine a few directions that this conversation was going. He wasn’t safe yet. "I don't think it is necessarily a weakness. Believe me when I say my upbringing did not exactly foster a strong inclination for, shall we say... personal attachments, but what is life for without a bit of this weakness? What stronger motivation is there?"

"I have plenty of motivation already," Ash snapped. “Everything I do is for me and only me, and it works just fine. It works even better this way. If I start worrying about things, I’ll lose my edge. I've always had a leg up on people because I _don't_ worry.”

“If you have just one thing to worry about, I think you are still quite ahead of the rest of us, no?”

“See, that’s the thing. That’s the problem. There’s already one thing that I can’t get rid of, no matter what I try, and I can’t start getting more. If I worry about two things, well, it's only a matter of time until I worry about three things, or four things, or twenty things, and then I'm as good as dead.” Ash looked up at him with determination.

Zevran’s heart was starting to race. He could think of one easy way to eliminate Ash’s new anxiety. “What is it that you worry about?”

Ash’s eyes narrowed. "I can't tell you because... I can't kill you. I wouldn't want to." He threw his hands in the air frustratedly. "What if I decide I don't want you to know anymore?"

That was some relief to hear. "Well," said Zevran, "that is the unfortunate truth about caring for someone. Friendship, should you wish to call it that." He thought again about what it would be like to betray Ash. "But I do not intend to abuse your trust. I think you can tell how content I am to be at your mercy."

This comment pleased Ash quite successfully. “Bah. I'm being a little dramatic, aren't I?” He sat up and spun around, tossing his legs over Zevran’s legs and his arms over his shoulders, almost knocking him over. He pressed his forehead against Zevran’s and looked him in the eye. “I know you love me. You couldn't live without me." The intensity in his voice made Zevran's heart beat fast. "If I ask you to do something for me, you'll do it, right?”

Still catching his breath, Zevran said, “What’s gotten into you, my friend? Just tell me what to do and we will see what happens. That’s how it normally goes, is it not?”

“But you would… Would you really do something for me? I’ve never told anyone this because... Wait, no, I did tell one person, but I killed her.”

“Tell me, and I will do it to the best of my ability.” Zevran replied firmly. Perhaps he agreed out of self-preservation, but perhaps he was also letting his heart lead him more than he was willing to admit.

Ash swallowed heavily. He looked around him, thinking carefully, his eyes starting to shine again. “I... Oh Maker, this is embarrassing.” He clawed at his hair and rubbed his face furiously. “You’re making me soft. You’re ruining me, Zevran. Do you know that?”

Zevran smiled. “I have been known to ruin many a pure and beautiful thing.”

Ash laughed. “Yes, my purity. You and your... corrupting influence.” He smiled dreamily into the stars for a few seconds before remembering what he was trying to say. “Do you remember when Wynne talked to me that night before she went back?”

“It was eh… something about your magic, yes?”

Ash nodded, or moreso shook his head up and down against Zevran’s. “After everything that happened in that tower, I started thinking about it. Not that I hadn’t thought about it before… I mean, I didn’t really start thinking about it until a few years ago, which was bad. That was dangerous, I—I shouldn’t even be alive really, how stupid I was as a kid. Dead or tranquil, maybe. But what Wynne said… I think she said I’m ‘throwing my life away.’ I’m ‘careless,’ I think is the word she used.”

“Slow down, my friend. Did she mean blood magic?”

“Well, all magic really, can do that to you. But yes, she meant the blood magic, because it’s particularly risky. That’s one reason they don’t want us to do it, one of many. You could even say it’s the primary reason they don’t want any of us having magic at all, why they put us in towers.”

Zevran gripped Ash’s face just a little bit tighter, hopefully forcing him to concentrate. “What does it do to you? What risk are you talking about?”

“Well, becoming an abomination.” He struggled to look Zevran in the eye. “I know it sounds stupid, like every mage worries about that, yeah, but if that happened to _me, _it just… I don’t want to die. I don't want to die, but I’d rather die than know that someday I won't be me anymore, and something else will be me.” Without looking up from Zevran's shoulder, his eyes widened and narrowed and he grimaced as if witnessing something terrible. “And I know the obvious thing to do is stop, but I can’t. I won’t. I need it to kill the Archdemon, and to kill anyone else that I need to kill. And I need it for… other things. The things that make life worth living, you know? But honestly, even after all this… I don’t know.” 

Zevran swallowed hard. "Ash... What do you want me to do?"

Some time passed before Ash mustered up the courage to face Zevran. “When--_If _that happens, Zevran... If I am ever not myself anymore... Will you kill me?” 

When he started to feel a burning sensation around his eyes, Zevran silenced his imagination. "Yes, _mi amor_. You have my oath."

Their relationship after that conversation was quite the opposite of the worst-case scenario Zevran had imagined at the time. Through some odd twist of fate, Zevran was the first and only person that Ash would ever trust to see his weakness, and he would never stop feeling like he held something incredibly rare and powerful. Ash accepted that he was prone to perhaps a few mundane feelings here and there, one of them being affection, though it was difficult for him to admit it. Zevran felt that over their years together, his partner grew a bit more grounded, but never enough that anyone who didn’t know him very personally would believe.

He never stopped using blood magic. They killed the Archdemon together, and with the timely help of one of Ash's less favored companions, everyone survived. Zevran had never had many strong feelings about her, and Ash had considered her a rival at best, but the act they committed that night seemed trivial in the face of what was to come. Zevran could never have predicted that it would have such a profound effect on him so many years later. He had only seen the child once, almost ten years ago now. It was from a great distance away, and over the years, his memory had mixed up what few details he had actually observed with fabrications from the more romantic side of his imagination. Surely he had been able to see the child's skin color all those years ago, but he now began to wonder if he had only imagined that it was as dark as his partner's.

In recent months, he had been in a strange place emotionally. Many wistful thoughts that he thought he had put down for good were bubbling up in his consciousness. All those years ago, it was hardly a surprise and only a minor disappointment that Ash did not share some of his aspirations for their future, but now that there was no more future for them at all, he felt a renewed sense of grief over each impossible dream. To his chagrin, he found himself once again imagining the child they could have raised together. Would Ash have been a good father? It was unlikely, but Zevran always assumed they would have many more years to grow and learn together, and their experience so far had told him that anything was possible. It didn't really matter who would have fathered the child, so Zevran found that he usually imagined the baby's appearance as something of a mixture between the two of them, as unlikely as that was. He couldn't help but wonder if his reinvigorated imagination was clouding his memory of his partner's real child. It was unlikely that the boy was not at least a bit paler like his mother.

He was restless. He had more responsibilities than ever with the Crows under his command and would-be usurpers on every street corner, but here he was, creeping around in Orlais drinking wine and filling his head with useless thoughts. He was not running away from his commitments as he might have done when he was younger, but rather taking care of something that he needed to do if he wanted to be strong enough to succeed. At least, that was what he told himself. Doubt plagued him, but he had already been putting this off for a long time. He would see what he needed to see, and he would go back to Antiva, and then he could return to being focused and level-headed. That was the plan, at least.

The moon was high in the sky, but a blanket of clouds made Zevran's shadow faint. He was taking more precautions than he really needed to, showing his face only to those that he absolutely had to and taking great care to stake out this manor for several days in advance. He was surprised to learn that the person he was looking for would be found at such an address, but the conspicuous lack of guards and overgrowth of the topiaries confirmed that this was the right one. The house next door was heavily guarded, however, so he was very careful to wait for the right moment before climbing the terrace to perch outside its elaborate sunroom. Within arm's reach was a bush that had maybe resembled an animal once, but now grew wildly out of shape and onto the neighboring property. 

Zevran hesitated until an armored guard was almost directly below him before hopping silently over the gap to land on the balcony with the overgrown topiaries. A light was on in the window and he was hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar silhouette before he approached, but this was fine. He had been debating with himself on the way here whether to sneak in or knock on the door, but he forgot which option he decided on. There was reason to believe he would not be welcome here, especially for his particular business. He wanted to see her, though, if only for the sake of nostalgia. He walked towards the tinted glass double doors, but before he could knock, a shadow appeared on the other side. A few bolts clicked, and the left door opened halfway.

"Zevran," said Morrigan, unruffled. She looked about the way he remembered, save for a rather fancy new robe.

"Ah, lady Morrigan. I am sorry to disturb you at this hour. I hope I am not interrupting anything." Peeking through the crack in the door, he could see the interior of the manor was as exquisite as the exterior.

"No," she said, "'tis not a particularly inopportune time, but I must say I was not expecting company." She did not seem interested in opening the door any wider.

Zevran leaned delicately on the edge of the other door, trying to act casual. "It seems you have done very well for yourself over the years, hmm?" he said, looking around at the elaborate marble and tile. "I am glad to see it."

Morrigan smiled but he could tell she was examining him very carefully, trying to determine his motive. "I happen to have found myself in a position of a more... political nature, these days. But I have a feeling you already knew that."

Zevran smiled back. "Yes... We have much catching up to do, no? Would you mind if I came in? We wouldn't want any neighbors getting the wrong idea."

She stared at him for a moment before opening the door all the way, apparently satisfied with what she had gleaned. It was a study of sorts, the walls lined with more books than wallpaper. The tomes appeared to be mostly of a dry Orlesian variety, but every once and a while, they were bookended by a massive volume in a strange language or a dusty urn full of bones. The floor was littered with stacks of even more books and odd artifacts, carefully arranged in a scheme which he could only guess at. Next to a floor lamp were two armchairs, one of which had a teacup and a stack of papers next to it. Zevran moved to sit in the other armchair, but there was a stone tablet on it which Morrigan swiftly picked up before he had the chance to touch it. She hesitated before placing it carefully on a shelf, perhaps reconsidering her hospitality. With her hand, she dusted off the seat before returning to her own chair and picking up the teacup. Zevran closed the door and sat down next to her.

When she noticed him watching her drink, Morrigan said, "I would offer you some, but I doubt you would like it."

Zevran responded by nodding politely, still looking around the room.

"It has been a journey indeed, adjusting to the Orlesian culture," she said, "but I think I have adapted quite well."

He thought about the hideous topiaries outside. "Quite impressive, yes, for such an outsider as yourself to be so close to the empress in such a short time."

"In times such as these, the kind of knowledge I possess is... indispensable to the empress," she said. Zevran was unsure what she meant by "times such as these." "There are many who would raise suspicion about my loyalty to her. I hope you are not here to do that." She eyed him questioningly, but he could tell she was only partly serious.

"Fear not. I assure you, I have my hands quite full with matters in Antiva." 

"I can only imagine. I take it by your attire and the fact that you are alive that you have reconciled with the Crows?"

He looked down at his rather expensive embroidered black leathers. "The sorceress has an eye for Antivan fineries, hm? 'Reconciled' is one way to put it."

"I see. How strange it is for either of us to have a hand in world matters in our own ways. We shall soon see how well we fare."

"Ah, my dear, but should some merchant prince manage to slip a knife into my heart while I sleep, you in Orlais may be none the wiser. It will be like I never existed." He felt her eyes on him, but he was content to look around at her assortment of objects until the time was right. There was only so much small talk they could exchange.

"That is perhaps for the best," she said, sipping gingerly. "As much as I hate to admit it, I am quite curious what has become of our Warden Commander. How many years has it been since he traveled north with his little party? And not a word back."

Zevran knew this was coming. He smiled sadly, imagining how amused Ash would be to hear some of the rumors surrounding his disappearance. 

"I refuse to believe that _you _wouldn't know. Disappearing to Tevinter with a slew of Chantry sisters never to be seen again? I pray that should he return, he will be prepared for his reputation to have decayed significantly since the Blight." She spoke with a hint of bitterness in her voice.

He was not sure what to say. This was a moment he had thought about in great detail, but when he tried to recite some of the explanations he had prepared, his mouth refused to move. All he could do was bite his lip and stare at the patterns in the carpet.

After he had hesitated for long enough, a smirk crept across Morrigan's face. She set her teacup down and clasped her hands on her lap. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Zevran felt like he was just punched in the gut. He cursed himself for thinking this was a good idea. The worst thing he could do would be to lose his composure in front of Morrigan, who he knew from the start would have no sympathy for him whatsoever. He wished he could say something, anything, but he wasn't even confident in his answer. In his mind he was replying with a firm "yes," proving to himself and to Morrigan that he was strong and self-assured. In reality he was absolutely pathetic. The correct answer from any point of view was "yes," but he felt that there was still a chance that he would be telling a lie, and that would burn him up inside more than all of the other lies he had told in his life combined. By remaining silent, he was perhaps confirming all of Morrigan's suspicions, but he could not even risk lying about the one promise he had made to the only person he had ever truly loved.

For months before he even left Antiva, he had been shirking his duties to try to be true to his word. Ever since Ash moved to Antiva, they saw each other fairly regularly, so it was strange for Zevran not to hear from him for so long. There was once a time when they were apart for more than a year, but neither of them so much as batted an eye, as they knew that they could each take care of themselves and that their fondness for each other would not fade. When Ash started getting deeper into the lyrium trade, he told Zevran that Antiva City was the place where he would find the most success, and Zevran did not refuse the chance to be closer to his lover. He felt an underlying dread, however, that Ash had another motive for moving closer to him, whether he was aware of it or not. Blight sickness had always weighed very heavily upon Ash, who was naturally very weak and unhealthy. Luckily, Ash had his methods for managing his symptoms, hiding them so well that sometimes Zevran was able to forget that there was anything wrong with him at all. His vanity wouldn't allow him to display his worsening health physically, but when Ash started to require more and more blood, Zevran was no fool. It was a miraculous coincidence that Ash happened to have the endless charisma of a cult leader, for without his devotees he surely would have died an even younger death. A better death, Zevran thought sometimes. Comparing the two made him feel sick. Ash would have only marginally preferred to succumb to the Blight, growing sickly (and, Maker forbid, ugly) and probably bedridden for the last of his days, but at least then, Zevran would have been able to say goodbye. He hated himself for thinking about something so selfish when he had failed the one thing that Ash had ever asked him to do. 

After three months of digging through Ash's collapsing lyrium rings, he had heard many tales of what had transpired. Every account was a little bit different, but it eventually became clear what had happened. However, it was not clear what, if anything, he could do about it. Now he was here, taking time away from the Crows to travel all the way to Orlais and share his pitiful state with someone who never really liked Ash in the first place. If he returned to Antiva only to be stabbed in the back by the new leader of the Crows, that might just be okay.

"Is he dead, or is it something worse than death?" mused Morrigan.

Zevran looked up and realized that a single tear was running down his cheek. He refused to wipe it away on the off chance that Morrigan had not yet noticed that it was there. "I... am not sure. His... his body was not found. It has been more than a year," he said, barely able to choke out the words. 

Her yellow eyes narrowed. "Oh? What kind of demon was it, I wonder? Pride? Desire? Not all abominations have an equal survivability."

"This is cruel, even for you," he said.

Morrigan picked up her cup and resumed sipping. "Hmm, I'm making fine guesses tonight. I had nothing particularly against him, but... Such is the reward one gets for dabbling in things which one does not understand." She waved her hand nonchalantly.

Zevran sat up straighter. "How could you say something so arrogant? As if you have not used the exact same magic for your own purposes."

"I have learned what I know of blood magic through patience and careful study, not through trial and error," she said through her teeth.

"Do not act like you are better than him," he snapped. "Everything he knew, he had to teach himself. Everything he had, he earned for himself! No Witch bullshit, he grew up surrounded by Templars with no one but himself to teach him to do what he did, and he still knew more than you ever will. You can't even imagine the things he's done."

"Unlikely," she hissed. "And you seem to have forgotten that the woman that taught me magic planned to kill me and steal my body. Is that really such a privileged upbringing?" 

"And what are you going to do about it?" Zevran stood up. "I know Ash would never live with the knowledge that someone like that would stand in his way. He would rather die than let someone come between him and what he wanted. You talk about patience, but that is because you do not want enough out of life to be pressed for time. He wanted so much that he could not afford to be a coward for even a second. There was no one with a greater passion for life. Do not act so superior when you will never be half the person he was." His voice was raised almost to a yell.

"Is it the mark of a great man to throw one's life away for vanity?"

"He slew an Archdemon for vanity! The things he accomplished would put your pathetic Orlesian mansion to shame."

Morrigan stood up. "Is that so? Remind me again which one of us is now the meat puppet of a demon," she spat.

His jaw dropped slightly and remained there, quivering. His breath came in violent stutters and he felt tears sinking into his scarf and dripping from his chin to the carpet below. It took all of his willpower to resist openly sobbing so he could return her piercing glare. 

"Don't tell me you loved him. Really? I'm beginning to think I thought too highly of you, Zevran. You are a fool if you believed you could be anything more than a plaything to that man."

_Love_. Zevran rolled the word around in his mouth. He could have sworn that he had heard that word from Ash's mouth. He pictured it in his mind's eye over and over until he started to believe he had fabricated the memory altogether. _My love. _That was a clear memory. Countless times they had tossed that phrase back and forth, but what did it matter? When they reunited in Minrathous, Ash had said "I love you," but what did he mean? Zevran had always known that Ash's love could never be quite the same as his own, but it had always been enough for him... right? They had always asked so little of each other that he had nothing in the way of a grandiose display of romance he could refer to as proof of Ash's love. At the same time, Ash had prized his company more than anything else. That was what he told Zevran, at least. It was too late to ask him how he really felt. _Not that it matters_, he thought as guilt washed over him. It sickened him how cowardly it was for him to question his commitment to Ash after he had let him down so superbly. The way he felt now was undeniable, and no amount of backtracking would help the words come to his mouth.

"I realize now why you're here," said Morrigan, "and I am afraid I must deny you what you seek." She pulled her robe tight around herself and walked in a wide arc around Zevran to the balcony door. "You are not going to see my son."

"Morrigan, I--I..." Zevran sputtered. This was bad. This was really bad. He never would have guessed that he would fuck this up so spectacularly. "Just--just let me see him once. I'm not trying to do anything. I don't need to talk to him, or--"

"I must ask you to leave. I've been exceedingly polite to you, but this is where I draw the line." She began pulling the door open.

His legs grew weak and he fell to one knee. He held a hand to his face to stifle the sound of his breath and obscure his pained expression. The shock of speaking aloud of Ash's disappearance had whittled away at his composure until there was nothing left. It was one thing to hear the stories of his possession, and another thing to make such a commitment as traveling all the way to Orlais, but now that he had said it out loud, Ash was really gone.

"Leave," she commanded, raising her voice for the first time. "This is utterly pathetic of you. Leave now, and I will do my best to forget about this... trespass. Leave and do not even think about coming back, for if you--" She gasped silently. Her eyes widened and fixed on something beyond Zevran. "Kieran?"

A boy stood in entrance to the study, wearing nightclothes and holding a stuffed toy. He had warm-toned skin and wavy black hair in need of a cut. His grey eyes were fixed on Zevran.

"Kieran, dear, you need to go back to bed." Morrigan moved swiftly towards the child, who continued staring at Zevran.

"My father..." said the boy as Morrigan started wrapping her arms around him to turn him back in the direction from which he came. He resisted her and she withdrew her hands, confused.

She settled for taking his hand and pulling him gently. "Come on, honey. Let's go back to bed." He pulled his hand away and reluctantly, she stood back a bit.

Kieran pointed at Zevran with a tiny finger, which Morrigan gently but hurriedly pushed back down. The boy's face was narrow, and his nose was curved at a very familiar angle. "Are you my father?" he asked.

Zevran stood up slowly, barely breathing. "No. I am not," he replied. He stared back at the child, thinking about little else but the shape of his nose and the shine of his hair. He did not blink for fear that the boy would disappear.

"You look like how I imagined he would. I know he was an elf," said Kieran. He scratched his face absent-mindedly. "I don't really like my father, but I think he's dead, anyway."

"Wha--" blurted Morrigan. She fluttered about for a moment, looking at Zevran, then back at Kieran, and back at Zevran again. Unsure of what to do, she crouched next to her son and took his hand in hers. 

"Were you listening to us?" said Zevran. Morrigan shot him a dirty look.

Kieran sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He shook his head. "I used to hear him, when he would hurt people." His eyebrows pursed with the effort of remembering. "It was scary and I didn't like it, but it doesn't happen anymore."

"When did it stop?" asked Zevran.

"Mother," he said, turning to look at Morrigan's concerned face. "When did we go to the festival with the flags?"

She did her best to put on a smile for him. "That was... That was last summer, dear. The summer of last year."

Kieran turned back to Zevran. "Last summer. Something happened last summer, and then I didn't hear him anymore after that." 

Zevran's eyes widened.

Morrigan gently touched one of his chubby cheeks. "Why didn't you tell me about this, love?"

"I know you always told me not to worry about my father," he said. "I thought you might get mad at me."

"Oh love, no," she said. It was bizarre to see Morrigan being motherly, but it brought Zevran an odd sense of relief. "You _must _tell your mum when things like this happen. You are my special boy, and I want to keep you safe, okay?" She pushed a piece of hair out of his face. "Now why don't we go back to bed?" She turned back to Zevran with an expression more characteristic of her usual self.

"But mum, he wants to know too," said Kieran, raising his finger again. "He wants me to tell him about it."

His mother silently bargained with herself, face creased with disgust, before rising defeatedly to stand behind him and rest her hands on his shoulders. She looked down at him intently to hear what he had to say, but she did not seem surprised to hear her son speaking so strangely. The resemblance between the two was quite clear, but all Zevran could see was Ash. He stared intently at the boy, trying to jog his memory of Ash's discerning squint or toothy grin. This child would likely never smile at the same things as his father. He even went so far as to dislike Ash, from what he knew of him, but that was probably a good thing. Zevran had thought long and hard about how he would have related to Ash had he not taken a liking to Zevran. Would they have encountered each other as enemies someday had Zevran not been sent to kill him? Would Ash be the Hero of Ferelden if another less handsome assassin had been sent after him? Probably. As cumbersome as it was at times, Zevran did possess a sense of right and wrong, as well as a sense of what would benefit the greater good. Ash had done several good deeds for Thedas as a whole, but in the end it was a very selfish love that he held for Ash. He did not regret the time they spent together or the crimes against the Maker that he was accomplice to, but if this child grew up to be nothing like his father, that might be okay.

"You want to know about the bad thing that happened to him," said Kieran to Zevran.

He nodded.

The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve again and Morrigan grimaced. "He was... I was hearing him like I always did," he said. "I heard him more than I ever did before. And he was laughing. He was always laughing. His body was made of other people and it was too small for him."

Somewhat unconsciously, Zevran began stepping slowly closer to Kieran. 

"It happened so fast and it made my head hurt," he continued. "When there was no more room for him, they pushed him out. Well... he was still there, but he wasn't the one that I heard after that."

Zevran stopped a few paces from him and crouched to see him at eye level. There was something strange in his eyes that resembled neither Morrigan nor Ash, and he stared at it like it was his only tether to life.

"He was so afraid," said Kieran, returning his gaze with an understanding he had thought impossible for a child. "But only for a second. Then I didn't hear him anymore. I heard something else, but when I woke up the next morning, I didn't hear anything at all. It was over after a day."

Tears began to roll down Zevran's face, but this time they were silent.

"Did you not like him?" the boy asked. "You're happy that he's dead."

Zevran crouched there, still as a statue, looking on blankly as the being before him shrank back down to a tired boy awake past his bedtime. When he yawned and stretched, he could not help but imagine that it was Ash's spidery hand that ruffled the boy's hair and tugged on his too-big pajama shirt until it fit him straight. It would be his child, too, and he could stand up and put his own hand gently on the boy's shoulder before nudging him off to bed and turning to kiss his partner lightly on the cheek. Ash would interlace his fingers with Zevran's and smile at him with big grey eyes. It was only a matter of time before he would feel that tacky mustache against his lip and remember how special it was to share his life with someone who filled it with endless adventure and novelties. The mustache suited his face, but no one but Ash would think to experiment with blood magic for months purely for the infamy of being the only elf in Thedas with facial hair. Thinking of the mustache made him chuckle even now. The more he became conscious of what the boy had said, the more clearly he was able to picture Ash in his mind. After all this time, he could finally look Ash in the eye again.

Morrigan walked with Kieran halfway down the hall, speaking quietly to him the whole time, before returning to Zevran, who now stood facing the night sky. He heard her approach and stop next to her armchair. A minute passed in which neither of them spoke. Zevran sighed and turned around to see her staring blankly at his feet with her arms crossed and an unreadable expression. 

"My dear Morrigan, you remain as lovely as the day we met, but I shall be taking my leave," he said. 

"I think that would be wise," she said, not so much with malice as with exhaustion.

"If we should ever meet again, you may interpret it as a sign that the world has fallen into catastrophe." He adjusted his scarf and pulled his hood over his head. "Farewell."

He did not wait to hear if she would return his goodbye. As he had done at many residences countless times before, he slipped out through the door and silently sealed it as though he had never been there. Outside Morrigan's balcony was a terrace that he slid down with ease to land in a garden of unusual herbs. It was the only part of the yard that was well-tended. The tears on his scarf had not yet dried, and he had done a poor job of adjusting the cloth so they would not touch his skin. He shivered when he felt the damp fabric on his neck. His eyes stung and they longed to close, but they were nearly dry. He stood there staring at the garden for a moment before carrying on silently onto a fountain and over the wall to the white brick path beyond. It was unlikely he would not cry again for the same reason, but for now he was beset with a more complicated emotion that ran so deep beneath the surface that he felt almost numb. This path was pitch black, unlike the much wider public path running parallel to it, but Zevran still took his time admiring the silhouettes the mansions made against the stars. 

He had contemplated on the way here why he wanted to see Kieran at all when enough research would likely have unearthed another bastard child of Ash's somewhere closer to home. It was not because he knew what powers an Old God soul would grant the boy, but perhaps there was some closure to be had simply from a visit to the south. Taking a sip of brandy from a flask, he wondered if he and Ash had ever been to any of these manors during their year of merriment in Orlais. Ash had always loved Orlais. When he conjured up memories of dancing in moonlit ballrooms, he was filled with longing, as had been his natural reaction for the past year, but tonight he was able to recall some of the pure joy that he had felt twirling around carelessly with the man he loved. It was a good thing Morrigan had moved here, because a trip to Ferelden might have been bittersweet enough to kill him. So many years had passed since he was last here, and even more since the Blight. Zevran had been alone as often as not in those years since, but now that he walked this path well and truly alone, his future began to feel uncertain. It was unlikely he would return here, as busy as he was, so he bid farewell to each manse and statue as he passed it with great finality. His only commitment now was to the Crows, and his mind wandered to what kind of person he would become. He quickly downed the rest of his brandy.


End file.
